Logan took something out of her bag and let it fall into the grave. It was a small stuffed bear. She shrugged. “I remember when Will and Adam were two years old.” Georgia put her arm around her and pulled her in for a hug. And as some kind of miracle, Logan hugged her back.
Georgia took the lid off of the urn and the two of us looked at each other. Our mother was finally, forever, going to be laid to rest.
We held the urn together and sprinkled half of the ashes into Oliver’s grave. Then we sprinkled the rest over George’s.
“Love you. We miss you,” said Georgia.
I said, “Bye Mom. I hope you’re happy. Wherever you are.”
Logan linked an arm in each of ours. We stood there each silent, each with our own thoughts. I think we were all three crying.
There was a slight sniffle and we all glanced over to see Mary Frances standing as still as was possible considering she was currently dissolving into a puddle.
Logan took a deep breath and said, “Bless her heart.”
Georgia cracked first, but as soon as she was going we all started laughing. We laughed through our tears as we made our way out of Huntley Memorial Gardens.
We headed back to Tillman feeling nostalgic about our mom and telling Logan stories from our childhood. I had felt like we’d lost some of that when we found out about George and Oliver, but we hadn’t. Not really. It was all still there for us to remember anytime we needed it. There was just more background to the story than we realized before.
Our little rental lake house had been transformed while we had been gone. Betty Chatham had brought in yet more flowers and tidied up the living room. Someone had catered a lunch so the dining room table was overflowing with food. There were platters of tiny biscuits with honey ham tucked inside and bowls filled with pasta salad and fruit salad and some kind of corn salad. There were elevated plate stands stacked with brownies and cookies and tiny pies. I was trying to figure out where it had all come from when I spotted a note tied to a pitcher of iced tea.
It read:
My dear Olivia, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about the baby. I hope you can understand why. I would never hurt your mother or open one of her wounds. It was an unspeakably horrible time for her. But I can see that by discovering him you were able to bring the family back together and I know that somewhere she is now at peace. I hope you don’t mind that I sent some refreshments for the reception. Please call me anytime. I promise that this time I will answer. Much love, Florence
Before the reception was in full swing we had one last errand. Logan, Georgia, Elliott, and I hurried to the screen porch to open the black metal box before any more reception guests arrived.
Elliott cut the bolt and Logan pried the rusty box open. Inside was a bundle wrapped in stiff, dirty molded canvas and tied with twine. Georgia unwrapped it and laid the bits of treasure out on the table.
We all picked up something as the items spilled out from the wrapping. I held up three small books. “The missing journals from the Fells.”
Elliott asked, “Why are they in here?”
I flipped through one of the volumes and stopped on a page. It had the same ink notes scrawled across it that I had seen in all of the other journals that had belonged to our grandfather. Notes about cases he was working on. But on top of the notes, on most of the pages, someone had scribbled with crayons. I said, “Oliver used them as coloring books.”
Logan pulled out a small velvet box and snapped it open. Nestled inside was a platinum wedding ring. The band was richly engraved with scrollwork and the oval-shaped diamond sat on a delicate filigree crown. We all recognized it from the wedding photos of Janie and George. It had been her mother’s ring. Janie had worn it when she married George.
I pulled the ring from the box and stared at it, turning it over and over, committing it to memory. Then I took Logan’s right hand out and put it on her finger.
Georgia said, “Are you sure you want Logan to have it? You don’t mind?”
I wiped the tears away. “Of course I want her to have it. And so would Mom.”
There were other things in the box, documents and letters. Random things. There was a copy of George’s will and of Oliver’s birth certificate. There were a few pictures, but they had been damaged over time with water and mold and were difficult to see. There was a baseball, which must have meant something special to George. There was a military medal of some kind and I held it up to see if Elliott recognized it.
He said, “I think that’s the Navy Cross. For valor.”
I turned the medal over in my hand. Its ribbon that had once been blue and white was now a uniform gray. “Valor in Vietnam and then he kills himself as soon as he gets home. So sad.”
At the bottom of the bundle was a very tarnished silver baby spoon.
Georgia had been opening each piece of paper and glancing at it before moving on to examine the next one. She handed one to me. It was the missing page from the coroner’s report of Oliver’s suicide. The eyewitness interviewed hadn’t been Emory; it had been George. Just as Emory had said, George had been the last one to see Oliver alive. He had called the sheriff when Oliver didn’t come home one night. I didn’t read the rest of the statement; I knew how that story ended.
There was a stack of letters bound together with a frayed ribbon. We just put it aside, knowing somehow that they were love letters from George. None of us wanted to intrude into those memories any more than we already had. At least not today.
There was one loose letter among the bundled pieces and yellowed envelopes. Georgia said, “This one has Mom’s handwriting.”
I nodded to her. “Read it.”
Logan, Elliott, and I held our breath as she read the small handwritten note.
George, I’m lost. I don’t know how to live here without you. Everything is gone now. The things that were left here don’t make sense without you. I don’t want it. I don’t want this life without you and Oliver. How could you go with him and leave me here? Why did God pick you to go and not me? It’s not fair. It hurts too much. This is my punishment. I burned the house down and Nate got hurt. It was all my fault. I can never forgive myself. I just wanted it all to disappear. Then I went out to the lake to finish this. How did your brother do it? I’m ashamed that I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t risk damning my soul to hell and not seeing you again. I will be with you and the baby again. Wait for me. Your Janie.
Our eyes moved around the group, each meeting one another’s. Finally I said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Logan was shaking her head, “I can’t believe she burned the house down on purpose.”
Georgia said, “No wonder she had to go to a mental hospital.”
Logan held her hand out and was staring at the ring. I wondered for a second if she thought it was cursed. Then she said, “At least she got to spend her whole life with him. You know? Before he died, I mean. They had like twenty-five years together, right? And she was happy with Grandpa Adam, wasn’t she? She made it. She pulled through.”
Elliott said, “She must have had this box with her that night to keep a few things safe from the fire.”
The fire. I started to wonder if that was why she had wanted to be cremated and I stared at the now-empty urn.
My attention was pulled toward the inside of the house where more reception guests had started to arrive. “Lo, Graham just got here. Will you two hold down the fort for a minute?”
“Sure. What are you doing?”
I picked up the urn and looked at Georgia. “Want to go give this a burial at sea?”
“Yes!” As Georgia and I made our way down to the lake she called over her shoulder, “Elliott, come with us. We need a good throwing arm.”
We stood looking out at the waters of the lake. The entire town of Huntley was under that water. The old streets and stores and houses. I wanted some tiny part of my mother to be put into the lake too, even if the only thing we had left of her was the last vessel
of her remains.
I handed the urn to Elliott; he asked if we were sure. I had no idea what else one would do with a used cremation urn. He wound up and launched it out into the water. It sailed in an arc and landed in the cove. I imagined it sinking slowly down to the bottom of the lake. Perhaps settling on some lane where she and George used to walk as children, or on the old site of some long-forgotten patch of grass that afforded the best view of the river. Maybe near a tree that Janie, George, and Oliver used to climb as children.
Logan called down from the house, “Mom, come up here and meet everyone.”
Georgia looked at me with a most shocked expression. I said, “I can’t believe she wants you to meet people.”
“I know. Usually she’s trying to find ways to lock me in the basement.”
Elliott and I were left alone on the muddy bank of Lake Huntley. He put his arm around me as we watched the circle of ripples in the water that had been made by my mother’s urn.
Elliott turned to face me and said, “Olivia . . .”
“Yes?”
He ran his hand through his hair. He knew I considered that one of his tells, and he smiled at me as if I’d caught him thinking. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Start what?” I felt my stomach drop. Where was he going with this?
“I just feel so bad saying this. I know it’s not really fair.”
“Just say it then.”
“Liv, you haven’t been here long. What? A month?” It had been five weeks and two days, but I didn’t say that out loud. He said, “I know you’re done here. You’ve finished what you came to do.” There was a palpable panic settling into the pit of my stomach as he kept talking. “It’s not fair of me to ask this. You have a life in Maryland and your job and your family. But Liv . . . Look, I do know how to live here without you.” He was echoing my mother’s letter. “I’ve done it for a long time. But I don’t want to anymore.”
I surprised myself by hitting him. “Dammit, Elliott! You just”—punch—“scared me”—slap—“to death!” Shove.
He started laughing. “I just told you I want you to stay here with me and you start hitting me. This is not an auspicious beginning.”
“I thought you were trying to tell me good-bye.”
“You’re so crazy. How could I let you go now?”
I said, “Then what was all that about us not knowing each other very long and feeling guilty?”
“I do feel guilty. I’m being selfish by asking you to stay here with me. I know that. But you know I can’t leave. My dad, my family, the paper. I’ve worked so hard to get it running. But what about your job? Your family?”
It all felt so easy now. “I’m quitting that job and I’ll always have my family.” That little sideways smile of his that I really liked was beginning to form. I said, “I don’t want to be anywhere without you either.”
“You’ll stay with me?” he asked.
“Yes.” It came out as a whisper.
“I’m so glad you said yes. You would have been so miserable if you had left me.”
I laughed. “Oh, really?”
“Really. You know you’re in love with me.”
“I do. I do know that. I wasn’t aware that you knew it.”
He said, “I’m very perceptive.”
“So you keep telling me.” I asked, “What do we do now?”
“Now? Now we fight over the covers. I will probably let you win, because I’m a gentleman. I will install first aid kits all over the house for you since you’re such a klutz.” I hit him again playfully, but he just kept talking. “I will cook you dinner and you can make me coffee. I had to meet your sister so you’ll have to meet my mom. She’ll want to get to know this girl I’ve fallen for and can’t seem to live without.” He shrugged. “I just want to be with you.”
I asked, “You do?”
“I do.”
We leaned in to each other and I kissed him until the last ripples made from the urn traveled across the water to the edge of the bank. They resolved themselves in a tiny wave over the red Georgia clay. One decision in life can roll out like that, travel out through time and place, until it has changed, ever so slightly, everything in its path. Our mother’s secret had been one of those ripples, cast out onto our world. I did not regret coming here and diving in. I did not regret knowing her in a way that she had never intended. Everything in my life had changed because of it, because of my decision to come here. But they were my changes and my choices. I was the one causing the ripples, no longer the one merely in their path.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am most indebted to Caroline Upcher, freelance editor, published author, and deliverer of copious red-ink admonishments. Caroline is the single greatest factor in this book being finished and published, and I owe her and that red ink a great deal of thanks. I have never been more grateful to someone for scolding me in a British accent.
My amazing and kind agent, Marly Rusoff, who has ruined my perception of things by making me believe that everyone in the publishing world is generous and friendly. I also owe a thank-you to Michael Radulescu for his help with all of the logistics along the way and to Julie Mosow for her honest critique and thoughtful edits.
I will be forever indebted to my editor at Harper, Claire Wachtel, who took a chance on a new author and guided me with her subtle notes and keen insight, improving the entire manuscript. Also a big thank-you to Hannah Wood, associate editor and accomplished hand-holder.
To all of my friends who have always supported my strange endeavors. My Burke Girls: you don’t tell and I won’t tell. My Clemson friends: you can’t tell because you don’t remember anything. Playgroup: thank you for not judging all that may or may not have happened. My Blog Tribe: you were the best and safest place to learn how to write. My friend and photographer Jo Reeves, who put up with way too many photo shoots because I hate getting my picture taken. Card Group, especially Lisa with her endless tales of the South. And to all the soccer and school and karate parents with whom I spend way too much time, thanks for always making it fun.
To my early readers, who were always very supportive and encouraging even if they were probably lying: Laura Heard, Jules Johnston, Becky Mautner, Darcy Mayers, and Travis Ward.
And of course my biggest thank-you goes to my family. My sister, Julie, who approaches everything with the enthusiasm of a puppy. My mother who has told me my entire life that I could do anything. Except that one time when I wanted to try out for the seventh-grade chorus.
My sweet, neurotic husband, Scott, who is the best dad and the worst cook, and didn’t flinch when I gave up doing laundry about ten years ago. My oldest daughter, Tempel, with her wry wit, endless empathy, and mad gaming skills, who is never afraid to taste any food, but is still wisely afraid of zombies. My baby, Parker, who has a lust for life and being silly, who can somehow run faster than her dad and organize better than her mom, and makes the sweetest and most creative birthday cards ever. Thank you for asking me to stop writing about you in my blog, which forced me to start writing fiction.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY JO REEVES PHOTOGRAPHY
CAROLYN T. DINGMAN lives in her adopted hometown of Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and their two daughters. Cancel the Wedding is her first novel.
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CREDITS
COVER DESIGN BY MILAN BOZIC
COVER PHOTOGRAPH © MATTHIAS CLAMER / GETTY
COPYRIGHT
CANCEL THE WEDDING. Copyright © 2014 by Carolyn T. Dingman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means
, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-227672-8
EPub Edition August 2014 ISBN 9780062276735
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